At Evening's End
by Canne
Summary: [Foyle's War] Milner and Sam clean up after Foyle's retirement party at the station.


**Title:** At Evening's End  
**Fandom:** Foyle's War  
**Characters:** Paul Milner, Samantha Stewart  
**Word Count:** 933  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary:** Milner and Sam clean up after Foyle's retirement party at the station.  
**Author's Notes:** Set post-"Casualties of War". Assuming that Edith Ashford is gone, as she didn't appear in that episode. See other story, "Hard As Ice", for explanation of Edith's fate.

She's standing on the table when he comes back into the room, taking down the banner they'd put up only a few hours ago. The pins in the ceiling are still a bit too high for her and she teeters precariously as she reaches upwards, balancing on the balls of her feet.

"Watch out." Paul says, rushing forward to steady her as she lists alarmingly to the side. He reaches her before she can stumble over the edge and stands awkwardly below her, hands gripped tightly around her waist, eyes wide looking up at her.

"Thanks." She smiles down at him, resting a palm on his shoulder for a moment. He catches the scent of her perfume, honeysuckle, and breaths it in. She smells of spring, of all things fresh and young and it's such a Sam-smell that he can't help but smile. "What?" She asks, watching his face.

"You…you smell lovely." He stutters, colouring under her gaze. She seems flustered by his response, but happily so and bestows a smile on him before returning her attention to the banner above.

He has to steady her several more times but eventually the cloth is free and Sam drops it onto the table.

"Help me down?" She asks, extending a hand. He holds it tightly, as she steps from the table, to the chair, and then down to the floor.

They fold the banner together, watching the message, "Good Luck", disappear, until the only letters visible are 'go'. Paul wonders if that's a sign.

"Did he get home alright?" She asks, slightly sadly, smoothing the banner as she places it in the station's box of party supplies.

"Yes." Paul answers, watching her, "He said that I should come over for tea next Saturday, that maybe you might be there too."

"Yes, I'm going to be his assistant, did he tell you? On the weekends." She asks, showing the first signs of her characteristic enthusiasm he's seen since Foyle told them of his retirement. "He's going to write his memoirs and I've volunteered to type for him. He's a horrid typist."

"So are you." Paul laughs, remembering when he'd finally yielded to one of Sam's demands that he give her something to do. Her efforts to type his case notes had been, if not exactly disastrous, then hardly successful.

"I can get better. All I need is a little practice." She protests.

"Alright then." Paul smiles fondly at her, ignoring the painful knowledge that after tonight she'll be gone.

"Are you sure you don't need a driver?" She asks earnestly, eyes wide with desperation. He shakes his head. He's asked, begged even, but his request has been rejected. He's not senior enough to warrant a full-time driver and, even with his leg, he's been able to drive pretty well on his own this last year.

"Sorry. Do you have any idea where they're sending you next?"

"Anywhere but back to the MTC garage, I hope." Sam sighs, "Someone has to want a driver. I can't imagine spending the rest of the war taking apart engines. It would be a disaster."

"For more than just you, I imagine." He jokes, trying to lift her spirits. She glares at him before breaking into a weak smile. "It will be alright." He says, feeling that his words are pathetically inadequate.

"I hope so." She says, "But no more of that now. Too depressing. Help me with these?" She asks, lifting one of the boxes of decorations. He gathers the remaining two and follows her out to the reception, where Sgt. Brooke is leaning against the counter, idly filling in a crossword puzzle.

"Well Brookie, here's the last of it. Just put them back with the Christmas things." Sam says, depositing her box on top of Brooke's paper.

"Sure thing Miss Stewart." Brooke says, as he stacks all three boxes and disappears with them.

Sam stands awkwardly by the counter, looking around her.

"That's it then." She says quietly and she looks so sad and lost that Paul reaches out, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing lightly. She rests her head on his shoulder for a moment, before stepping away. "I should get my hat and coat." She says.

Both items have been left in his office, as usual. Sam has never had a place of her own in the station and had at some point adopted his office as her unofficial headquarters, hanging her items on his coat rack, spending her spare time doing his filing or merely sitting in one of the chairs, chatting with him or reading quietly while waiting to be called upon by Mr. Foyle.

"You're going to fall behind on your filing now." She says, looking at his filing cabinet as she pulls on her hat. He holds her coat for her, helping her into it, and wonders if this will be the last time he ever does so. It's a strange thought and again he wonders how he'll be able to work here, without both her and Foyle.

"But think how much more I'll get done, without you talking all the time." He teases as he leads her out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"You'll be bored within a week." She retorts confidently.

"Probably." He says, suddenly grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly. She smiles, then blushes when he doesn't let go.

"I'll walk you home." He says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright then." She agrees. They leave the station holding hands and if Brookie sees, he doesn't comment, for once.


End file.
